


Petka and the Young Prince

by Five



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Canon Universe, Friendship Origin Story, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 21:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Five/pseuds/Five
Summary: After the funeral of the Princess Bolkonskaya, a directional mishap unites a young Prince Andrei with a boy who would become his oldest friend.





	Petka and the Young Prince

The Bald Hills was a long way from anywhere to stop in just for a funeral. When he racked his brain for an answer, that was all Andrei could think of. But he kept asking himself why, why, why was his house buzzing with people? Why did aunts and cousins and total strangers offer these templated condolences while they hung around his dinner table and demanded his good nature? He had finished eating quick as he could and left covertly, not asking to be excused. It was only mama who had minded if he asked to be excused. He ran off and brushed off the faces which met him in the hall, except for Masha, who he kissed on the head as he passed her. His room was down a long hallway, isolated from the bulk of the house. It was a long walk, lined with expensive portraits and well-dusted statues. His gait was quick and measured and absolutely stern. He walked like a sharp little man until he reached the door. He let it slam behind him without remembering to bolt it.

His room was dark, only the fading daylight streaming in from between the heavy curtains. Andrei thrust his curtains closed and took his jacket off, throwing it over a high-backed armchair. He screamed as he threw it, and screamed as he undid his waistcoat and slammed it to the floor. By the time he reached up to loosen his cravat he had no screaming left in him and simply gasped and sputtered. He wrenched the awful thing off his neck and threw himself onto his bed. 

All the funeral he had stood silently, bit his lip and furrowed his brow as they took his mother away. He hushed Masha as she cried: in confusion, more than anything else. He held his shoulders straight and his head high and reminded the world what it meant to be Nikolai Bolkonsky’s son. Everyone was so proud of his strength. He was fourteen and nearly a man, he thought, so he needed to be strong.

All he could think as he lay in a heap on his bed was that he had no one to hold him. He clung to the covers beneath him and pressed his wet face against it, his eyes filling with blinding tears. Alone and out of sight, he had begun to cry. He found that he hated it, he wanted to stop. This made him angry and frustrated and only forced him to cry harder. He lay there and sobbed until he ran out of breath and then lay there in silence until he regained the strength to cry. Then, he climbed under the blankets, pulled his knees to his chest, and sniffled an erratic cry every minute or so. The daylight was fading. He didn’t light a candle. 

After a while, his door began to open and he tried to shield himself, quickly wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand, and then, with a second thought, wiping his nose. The door opened too clumsily to be father.

“Go away Masha. Go find nanny. I don’t want to talk right now!”

The door began to close and then opened back to where it was. A quiet cough came from the doorway. Decidedly, it wasn’t Masha. Andrei struck a candle. The candle made his tear-stained face look ghastly, which elicited a gasp. He turned to the source of the sound to see a round, fat little boy, frowning under his too big, half broken spectacles.

“Why are you crying?” said the boy, coming a little closer in spite of himself. Andrei turned his face away and wiped his eyes again.

“Why am I...” certainly anyone who had come to the Princess’ funeral had to have known him, or at least to have heard his name and remarked his resemblance to the woman, “why...who are you?”

The boy looked embarrassed and stepped backwards towards the door. “‘m Petka.” He put his hands in his pockets and looked down, making circles with one leg. “Who’re you?”

He sniffed bitterly and brushed back his hair with one hand.

“Andrei Nikolaevich.”

“Oh no. Oh I shouldn’t be in here I’m sorry. I was looking for the coat closet.”

“This isn’t a coat closet.” Andrei said stiffly.

“I see that. I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone now I’m sorry.” Petka shoved his jacket up higher on his shoulders.

“Wait,” said Andrei, “don’t go yet. Were you getting your coat to leave? Or are you cold?” The little boy blinked. 

“Cold.”

Andrei lowered himself from his bed and went to his closet, taking out a coat.

“Wear this.” The boy was no older than six or seven, but already big for his age, and Andrei, though not short for fourteen, had always been slight. The coat caught around Petka’s shoulders. Petka stood there with the coat half on him and shuffled a bit before Andrei took it off him.

“You really thought this was the coat closet?” he asked. Petka nodded. Andrei laughed. “You were really lost then, eh?”

“I didn’t mean to bother you. I’m sorry about your mama.”

“I- I- forget about it. Come put a blanket over your shoulders for a while before you go back to the parlor.”

He helped Petka up onto his bed and wrapped him up in the blanket. What a strange and silly child. He swelled with amusement, and then with guilt, and started to cry again.

“Oh please don’t cry,” said Petka, taking off his spectacles and brushing at tears with his shirtsleeve. It seemed he had begun crying at the sight of tears. Andrei bit his lip. He wasn’t a _ baby _. “Your lip is bleeding Andrei Nikolaevich. Should I get....” he knew who one got in such situations but didn’t want to be impolite, “should I get some help? You have a papa, I should think. Olya said most people do,” he babbled, “I don’t know if I do because the, my, my father isn’t...but-”

“No, don’t get my father.” Andrei stared off. “You’re a funny little boy, you know that?”

“That’s what Olya said too. Does your father not like to see you?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“I dunno. You didn’t want me to get him.”

“You’re a funny one,” Andrei repeated. He drew his shoulders up straight and thought practically for a moment. “No. I said don’t get him because he’s busy. He was just widowed. Made a widower. I don’t know. He’s just busy. You know this house is filled with visitors.”

“I know. Oh! I should go back or Olya will shout at me.”

Andrei had to laugh. “Who _ is _ this Olya?” 

“My cousin, Olga Semyonovna. She’s supposed to be watching me while I’m here in...the...in...Smolensk, because my...father doesn’t want me getting into trouble or bothering anybody. I didn’t do that, either, I walked right into your room while you were crying.”

“I wasn’t!” Andrei snapped.

“It’s alright if you were,” Petka told him with a wise little look, “I cried all the time when my mama died.”

Andrei looked taken aback. The boy couldn’t have been older than Masha and was already talking of a distant past. 

“How old are you?”

“Seven and a half. It was when I was little. Three years ago. I don’t really remember, just what people told me and that I cried.”

“I-I’m sorry.” Andrei would remember his mother for the rest of his life, until he was old and gray and forgetting things like his grandfather did. Even Masha, who was barely seven, should remember a little. At least that she was kind, and that she loved them very much. What did Petka have? He suddenly felt sorry for feeling sorry for himself.

“You didn’t do anything,” Petka said, “what are you sorry for?”

Andrei stood up and went to his waistcoat and began to dress. “Forget it. I should find that Olga Semyonovna or whoever she is for you, and get you…” returned? Did one return a child? He settled on well enough, “returned to her. And my aunts will want to see me. That’s why my father’s let all these damned people in here, to see little...orphaned Andryusha and hug him until he’s blue in the face-- sorry. I just don’t know if I can do this.” he tied his cravat until he was back up to the chin in funereal black and looked cursorily in the mirror across the room. 

His hair was disheveled and his face looked sunken and hollow. He sat back down, this time in a chair by the mirror, picking up a comb and smoothing himself incessantly where he sat.

“I think you can,” Petka said.

“How come?”

“Everyone was talking about how brave you are before I got here, and how smart,” Petka put on his deep ‘grown-up voice’ “‘Prince Nikolai’s boy is so intelligent!’ ‘And did you see how serious he looked this morning?’ ‘And so strong for his sister!’”

“I suppose I’ve proved them wrong quite thoroughly,” he put the comb down and leaned his face moodily against his hand.

“I don’t think so. I bet they’re right. You have a lot of books on your table and you talk like you’re smart and you’re so tall and you’ve got your shoulders all straightened up you walk like a man. Like an old one, a real one. Twenty or something.”

Andrei wanted the poor kid to breathe. 

“Sure,” he said plainly. “Come with me, will you? I’ll help you find cousin Olya.”

“I’ll come with you. Can I stay with you first, though, for a bit?”

“With pleasure.”  
  



End file.
